


Social Silence

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, for:shutterbug_12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-10
Updated: 2009-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stacy teaches House a new skill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Social Silence

**Author's Note:**

> For Shutterbug, for my [DRABBLERAMA: Road Trip Edition challenge](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/407891.html). Thanks to Chemina42 for the beta.

**Social Silence**

"God, why are we going to this thing?" Greg hooks two fingers into the knot of his tie and starts tugging.

Stacy doesn't hesitate to reach across the gearshift as she slides into the driver's seat and swat at his hand. "Stop it. You just put that on." _After forty-five minutes of whining_. She's still fuming over his attitude, his selfishness, and the delay.

Greg tries to grapple with her, catch her hand and twine their fingers to stop her from shifting the car into drive. Stacy freezes him with a glare, yanking her hand back, and nearly snaps the key in the ignition when she turns the car on. "_Leave_ it," she says. Greg pouts, but lets his hand fall from his tie to his lap, where he immediately starts drumming out a rhythm designed to get on her nerves.

"And you know very well why we're going." Greg might think if he drives most of her friends out of her life, it means he'll have her all to himself. He might also think that because he ditches his work functions and doesn't care about the consequences, that she can do the same. Neither is true, and today is both: a retirement celebration for a colleague who she has also become good friends with. Stacy's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "I'm going to teach you a new skill," she says, keeping her voice low and under control. Greg is _not_ going to manage to ruin this day.

"Oh yeah? What's that?" Greg has the bored look that she knows is his most dangerous; he might start _flicking_ her at any moment just to see how many times it would take before she snaps.

"How to shut up," she says, sweetly, but with an edge that should tell him what kind of peril he's walking into.

"Huh." Greg considers that, his lower lip protruding, before he turns to her with a leer. "What do I get if I behave?"

"Nothing," Stacy says. "What you get is the knowledge that you haven't endangered my career. It should be very satisfying."

"I thought I got _nothing_," Greg says. "Now I get personal satisfaction? I don't know which is worse. Unless it's the kind of personal satisfaction I get with my right hand. Sounds like _that's_ all I'll be getting for a while."

Stacy shakes her head. God, he's infuriating. "I don't think you _can_ shut up," she says. She's already imagining having to apologize for him, _again_. She loves him, and he _can_ be incredibly sweet, but every time she tries to explain that to her friends, she feels like she's making excuses for an abusive relationship. Today, Greg should be far more worried that _he'll_ be the victim of domestic violence. "It's probably not physically possible for you not to speak for an afternoon."

Greg's lip curls, and he seems to sink even deeper into his sulk, but _maybe_ he's actually respecting her wishes, because after that he only stares out the window and forebears to make any comments on her friends, her colleagues, or the inherent hypocrisy of maintaining human relationships. Stacy drives in tense silence, a headache working its way up the back of her neck and pulsing behind her eyes, but when they reach the party, she's able to pull on a smile and offer her congratulations sincerely. Greg's smile is more of a grimace. He shakes hands, but says nothing. Stacy wants to take his arm and pinch him, but he escapes to the open bar before she can stop him.

Stacy grits her teeth as she makes her rounds of the party. She's waiting for the sound of Greg's voice, the moment when he'll jump into a conversation with some boorish insinuation or by aggressively destroying someone's logic. It doesn't come, and she feels every muscle in her body tensing the longer he _doesn't_ make a scene. Stacy would have liked to stay longer--she does like these people, much as Greg stares at her in disbelief when she tells him so--but she can't stand not knowing what he's up to, and so she goes looking.

She finds Greg sitting on a sofa, a look of utter distaste on his face. He huffs. He sighs. He gapes incredulously and rolls his eyes every time he hears something he thinks is stupid, which works out to nearly every time someone speaks. He slumps back against the sofa, his long legs sprawled out in front of him as a menace to anyone who needs to get through the already crowded room, his arms crossed childishly across his chest. And he's not saying a word.

Stacy leans in close, grabbing his wrist tightly, and hisses in his ear, "This isn't what I meant."

Greg gives her a half-triumphant, half-defiant look that says even more clearly than words that if this wasn't what she meant, she should have been a lot more clear when defining her terms.

They're back in the car soon afterwards, and this time, the silence between them is more than icy. Stacy parks, turns the car off, and is nearly inside the apartment before Greg catches up, but she pretends he doesn't exist for the rest of the evening, tensing when he rolls close to her under the covers. She doesn't _want_ to be this angry. She'd rather explain to him exactly how normal human beings act at a social function, but he's not a three-year-old; he did it deliberately, and she's not about to forgive him.

It's a war of attrition, and Stacy doesn't intend to back down. If he wants to see what his so-called silence has earned him, it's silence in return. She keeps it up the next day, and the next. Greg starts, "_Hey_\--" when she silently rebuffs his kiss one evening, but then his eyebrows lower and she thinks that he's setting himself for the long haul.

She's not prepared for what he does next. He screws up his face as if he can't believe it's come to this, and turns away from her, taking three strides to cross the room. He picks up the phone and dials, his shoulder turned to her as he waits for an answer.

"Hi," he says. "This is Greg House." God, he knows the number. Of course he knows the number. "I was at your place on Saturday--" He pauses and his lips tighten, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment. Stacy opens her mouth to object, but it's already too late. "Oh, you remember. I'm--" He glances at her, and then he squares his shoulders. "I'm sorry about how I acted." A pause, while Greg listens, clearly against his will. "Yeah. Goodbye." He hangs up the phone and turns to her, daring her to reject his stab at making it all better.

Stacy raises an eyebrow. "Are you really sorry for how you acted?"

Greg shrugs slightly and looks away, which means that no, he's not sorry at all. Stacy lets her breath slide out. The apology was for her, to her. And she's meant to know that it's real because he involved someone else. On one hand, it's nice to know that she means more to him than his pride--well, certain aspects of his pride. On the other hand, he's still going to screw with any attempt she makes at a social life if he's not interested to begin with.

It doesn't matter; she's as tired of pushing him away as he is of being pushed. "All right. I know you _can_ shut up," she says. She crosses the room to him and grips the material of his shirt over his chest. Tilting her head back to look up at him, she offers him a reluctant smile. She's still upset, but she knows the value of a gesture, when it comes from Greg. "Next time I'll teach you _how_ to shut up."

 

_end_


End file.
